


Go West

by phoebesmum



Series: The Beautiful South [2]
Category: Sports Night
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>The Beautiful South</i>. Dan's working in Los Angeles, successful and happy, but Casey has a better offer for him - if the shadow of what happened in Florida doesn't blight all they have together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go West

**Author's Note:**

> Written June 2005.

When they get to the airport, of course, it's to find that the network, with the generosity for which it's legendary, has booked them business class. Casey leans his aching head against a pillar and for a moment contemplates having a full-scale celebrity, albeit minor celebrity, tantrum: _Don't you know who I am?!_ He discards the idea as both pitiful and potentially embarrassing. It's lucky for everyone that Dana is travelling with him: Dana, with her unconscious, inbred, upper-class arrogance, and the business skills so recently, ruthlessly acquired, and the breasts that god gave her, is a force not to be reckoned with, and she finagles them an upgrade to first class as if first class were her god-given right. Which, Casey reflects, if she were flying on daddy's ticket, would be the case. He decides he won't share these thoughts with her, especially not the 'breasts' thing. He thinks it's a pretty good line, and maybe he'll use it in his Great Unwritten Novel one day - that would be the day when he actually gets around to writing it - but he's becoming an expert on how to tailor his material to his audience, and he's already lost one fight to a woman today; his ego couldn't take another.

He thinks he lost the fight with Lisa. Some days it's hard to tell. He's pretty sure that, at the least, he didn't win.

_But I didn't think you wanted to go_, he hears himself saying for what feels like the hundredth time. And, for what seems like the hundred and first, he hears Lisa replying, wearily, speaking very clearly as if to a moron, _I can't go, Casey. I can't leave Charlie, and Charlie can't fly with his ear infection. But it would've been nice to have been asked_.

And for the hundredth time, Casey thinks that he will never understand women; never understand Lisa, that's for sure. She's always said she hates that sort of thing - award shows and ceremonies, media back-slapping. She's always refused to watch the Oscars, the Emmys, anything like that: "It's all fixed," she claims, and rolls her eyes at the weeks of publicity and speculation, magazine and television coverage. So why should this be any different?

_You know, Dana's up for an award, too_, he remembers saying, somewhere along the line. _If you want to know all the, you know … girl stuff …_ And Lisa had said, dangerously, _'Girl. Stuff.'_

And at some point he'd reminded her that Danny was going to be there, in LA, and they'd probably spend a lot of time together, and Lisa has never really liked Dan … so …

That was when Lisa had thrown down the pile of laundry she was folding and yelled something about Dana and Danny, what was this, the fucking Bobbsey Twins? And he'd tried to ease the moment with a little humour, and said, "No, hon, that was Flossie and Freddie."

He still doesn't know why she'd stormed out of the kitchen then. Or why he'd ended up having to cook his own dinner. Or why she'd pretended to be asleep when he'd come to bed.

He tries to put it out of his mind as he settles into his comfortable, spacious seat and smilingly (because you always smile in public) turns down the offer of a glass of wine. At least he won't have to fly halfway across the country with his knees jackknifed up around his ears and stumble onto the tarmac in LA bent double and barely able to walk. People don't seem to understand that it _isn't_ minor-celebrity vanity; for someone as tall as he is, flying business is sheer hell, and coach doesn't even bear thinking about.

He's not going to think about the award, either. He's pretty confident he should've won; he knows that the piece he's up for was his best work to date: he'd spent weeks on the research, written a tight, intelligent script, and he'd been on fire the night they'd taped. But juries can be unpredictable, and there's no sense in setting himself up to be disappointed.

_Why change the habit of a lifetime?_ the voice in his head asks wryly.

The voice in his head tends to sound like Danny. He's never been sure just why that is.

Dan's been nominated too, he belatedly remembers. He's not sure for what, although he knows they're not in the same category. Literally, as well as figuratively. Dan did tell him, but whatever he said, it's gone. He reminds himself to remember to congratulate him; it's quite an achievement, to be nominated so early in his career. Dan's only been working in LA for six months, only had a handful of major on-screen interviews. But he's making his mark, and Casey's quietly proud of him. He won't win tonight, of course - the kid doesn't stand a chance, not against the heavyweight players he's competing with - but still: he's done well for himself. He'll go far.

If Casey has any say in it, he'll go as far as Dallas. The network's provisionally agreed to see him, on Casey's recommendation; if Danny can behave himself - and he can, when he needs to - and make a good impression, then Casey's confident that he'll get his own choice of co-anchor for the new show they're in the process of putting together.

Casey's been working toward this for a long time. Once he was sure the anchor job was in the bag, he was determined to get Dan on board. Co-anchoring with Dan's been a dream of his. They work well together, the two of them: they have a chemistry, a rapport, and their off-screen relationship (no; call it something else, call it 'camaraderie' or 'friendship', or anything, even if none of those words comes close to describing what it is) translates on camera into something that is, simply, astonishing. Or it did. Casey hopes it still does. And Dana agrees, which makes all the difference. What Dana wants, she generally gets.

As for what Casey wants … well. He'll settle for what he can have.

*

At LAX, Casey scans the crowd, and breathes an audible sigh of relief when he finally spots Dan; Dan, with his new, TVQ-aware haircut, would have been unrecognisable if Casey hadn't managed to catch a few of his recent interviews. He feels his mood lighten, almost as if a physical weight's been lifted.

It comes crashing down again a moment later when he realises that the tall, blond man standing beside Dan is not only standing by him; he's _with_ him. He says something, and laughs, and Dan turns his head and flashes a smile up at him, and Casey feels his heart twist; he thinks, before he can stop the thought, _he should only smile at me that way_, and the wave of jealousy that the thought brings leaves him swallowing back nausea. He bites it down. He knows he has no right; he gave up that right, four years ago, if he ever really had it at all. Dana is waving, and Dan and - whoever he's brought with him - are threading their way through the crowds. The blond man has his hand on Dan's shoulder. Possessive. _Clingy_, Casey thinks viciously. And tactless. Indiscreet. Dan's a rising TV personality; behaviour like this could damage his career. Don't either of them care?

Dan certainly doesn't seem to. He reaches them then, and he looks good, his olive skin, sallow in the New York winter, tanned an even, golden brown by the California sun. So good, in fact, that Casey forgets to think for a moment; he's overwhelmed by the need, the wanting that never quite goes away, no matter how hard he tries. He finds himself zoning out, as if his mind's gone to commercial, and when he gets his focus back Dan's saying "Hey, Dana," and leaning down to kiss her cheek. Then he's standing back, looking her up and down. "Been to Italy?"

"Rome," Dana tells him. "Last summer." And she stretches out a foot, pointing her toes. "Nice?"

"M'm," Dan says. "Very."

Casey looks at Dana's foot blankly. It's a foot. In a shoe. He supposes this is about the shoe. It just looks like … well, like a shoe, to him: it's black, seems mostly to consist of straps, and the heel's so high he doesn't know how Dana can walk without pitching forward onto her face. But then Dan's pulling him into a hug and he's temporarily distracted by the problem of where he can safely put his hands, finally settling on the small of Dan's back as neutral ground. Maybe he's a tad over-cautious; when Dan steps back he's still smiling, but his eyes are concerned. Just for a moment, and then his habitual smile is back in place.

"Dana, Casey," he says, "this is Marcus." And the man with him steps forward. He towers over Casey, which is an almost-unknown experience and unnerves him; he practically has to bend in two to take the hand that Dana offers him. Close up, Casey can see that Marcus, as well as being quite ridiculously good-looking - far _too_ good-looking, in Casey's opinion, he suspects that he's had work done - is tanned and athletic and muscular. Casey hates him on sight.

Marcus is driving Dan's car, it transpires; he's going to take them to the hotel, go on to work, then drop it off later. It seems a complicated arrangement, but Dan just shrugs lazily and murmurs, "Valet parking's a bitch, man." Marcus takes Dana's bags, two in one massive hand, Dan takes one of Casey's, and they head for the parking lot. Dan turns out to be driving something that looks like a small tank these days; all their luggage, and Danny's own, is lost in the huge trunk space, even though it has to share with an assortment of sporting gear, a twelve-pack of mineral water, a ratty and disgusting sweatshirt, a pair of bathing shorts (still wet), a box of CDs and what seems as if it must be about half of Dan's worldly possessions. Dana starts to laugh and says, "Danny, are you _living_ in your car?" And Marcus smiles fondly and says, "Nah, he's just a slob," and ruffles Dan's hair affectionately. Dan smiles back up at him, Marcus lets the back of his hand brush against Dan's cheek, and from out of nowhere a stranger's voice says loudly, "_Faggots_!"

Casey bristles, and Dana's eyes narrow. She starts to turn, but Marcus, for all his size, is faster. He glances over his shoulder with an easy smile.

"Can I help you guys?" he asks, and steps forward to loom over the man who'd spoken. Who looks up at him (and up, and up), and gulps, shakes his head, and scuttles away. Marcus laughs; Dan doesn't. He watches his friend, and his eyes are dark with concern. When Marcus turns back, Dan murmurs, "One day they're going to be bigger than you, babe. Or meaner."

"Not today," is all Marcus says, and he shrugs the whole thing off, heads round to the front of the car and slides into the driver's seat. The rest of them pile in after him, a little subdued now, and they head for the hotel.

*

Marcus drops them at the entrance. Check-in takes forever, or near enough - the hotel's a hive of activity, sports reporters everywhere, along with their producers and writers and editors and tech teams, all of them convinced that their immediate needs take priority over everyone else's - but finally they have it all sorted out. There don't seem to be any bellhops around, but that's okay; they're Men (or at least, Casey is, and Dan … kind of is), it's not as though they can't carry a couple of little bags. Besides, Dana's main suitcase, which is the biggest, is on wheels. Dan takes her hand luggage, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Casey waits for an explosion - Dana has been known to be very vocal on the subject of Male Chauvinism - but it doesn't come, she only smiles up at Dan and thanks him, apparently genuinely grateful. Casey reflects, yet again, that women are unpredictable and, occasionally, bizarre. Sometimes he thinks it's not worth the effort of trying to understand. He thinks that a lot, as a matter of fact.

All their rooms are on the same floor, but separated by what seems, when they get there, to be several miles of corridor, all carpeted and silent, all more-or-less identical. Dan mutters something that Casey only half-catches, some mysterious and incomprehensible reference to Marienbad. If he weren't already so tired that all he wants to do is drop, preferably into bed and sleep for a week, he'd ask Dan to explain it, but as it is he lets it go. They get to Dan's corridor and he peels off from them, making 'see you later' noises; Dana and Casey carry on the way they're going. Dana's room turns out to be only a few doors further down. Casey, who has inherited her hand luggage, drops it inside the door and turns to go, but Dana stops him.

"Casey."

He turns resignedly back. "Yeah?"

"You never told me that Danny's gay."

A flash of memory: the touch of Dan's hands on his skin, the smell of Dan's sweat, the taste of his mouth. "Gay?" Casey says, and is surprised to find his voice so steady. "I never really thought about it. He dates girls sometimes, I've met a few of them - "

Dana sits down on the edge of the bed. She looks far older, suddenly, than she really is. "Well. If you want him to have a chance at getting that anchor job, tell him he'd better stick to dating girls. Okay?"

Casey tries to protest, although he knows she's right. "That's not - "

"I know it's not, Casey!" Dana snaps, then evidently makes an effort and softens her voice. "But it's the way it is, and you know it. If it were up to me, he could march at the head of the Mardi Gras parade with a rainbow flag wrapped round his shoulders, but the network isn't going to see it that way."

Casey knows that ethically he ought to argue, to defend Dan's right to his own choice of lifestyle, but he just doesn't have the fight left in him. And besides: who is he to talk? So he merely says, "I'll talk to him," and lets himself out. He checks his room number and sighs. He still has quite a walk ahead of him; miles to go before he sleeps.

Finally, he's there. His room appears to be at the very end of the longest, most remote corridor the hotel can boast, at least half a mile (he estimates) from the elevator. He lets himself in, casts a cursory look around - it's a hotel room, what is there to say? - dumps his bags on one twin bed, toes off his shoes and flops onto the other. He should phone Lisa, he guesses, but he puts the thought to the back of his mind. At the moment, all he wants is sleep. Unbroken, uninterrupted sleep. Charlie's ear infection has kept the whole house awake for the past few nights, but quite honestly, if it wasn't that it would be something else. He can't remember when he last had a quiet moment to himself.

He closes his eyes.

It seems only a moment later that he's woken by a knock at the door. He curses, drags himself up, stumbles over and opens it. Dan's outside, in shorts and Reeboks and the scruffiest teeshirt Casey's ever seen, one leg bent up behind his back, hand grasping his ankle, as he stretches out the muscle.

"I'm going running," he says, and swaps legs to stretch the other. "You want to come?"

"I'm kind of wiped out," Casey excuses himself. "I was trying to get some rest before this evening."

Dan stops stretching and looks at him carefully. "Casey - you okay? 'Cause, dude, no kidding - you look like crap."

Casey laughs in spite of himself. "Thanks a lot!"

Dan holds up his hands in self-defence. "Hey, I say it with love!"

"I know," Casey says quietly and, for a moment, the word _love_ echoes through his mind; he remembers how it used to be with Danny, how he used to feel. He suppresses those thoughts - he's an expert in that, now, he can do it without even thinking, without even knowing he's doing it - and recalls his conversation with Dana. Best to get it over with. "Danny, could you come in here for a minute? I need to talk with you."

Dan follows him in, looking at him curiously. Then Casey finds he has no idea where to begin, and they stand in awkward silence for at least a minute before Dan finally says, "Casey, what - ?"

"Marcus," Casey blurts out.

Dan's face goes still and cold. Still, his voice is even as he says, "What about Marcus?"

"Marcus," Casey repeats, like a needle stuck in the groove, but he manages to get slightly further this time. "What is he, your … your …" Then he's stuck again. He doesn't know how to say it. 'Boyfriend' sounds too juvenile; 'lover' too dramatic; 'partner' too, well, too ... permanent. Finally he settles on, "You and he - are you … together?"

Dan shrugs. "Nothing serious," he says then, casually, "He fucked me last night, if that's what you're asking. If it's any of your business." His voice is still calm, but he's angry; the words are meant to be shocking, deliberate. And Casey would know anyway. He may not know much, but he knows Danny that well. At least that well.

"It's a little bit my business," he says, and wishes he didn't sound quite so defensive. It only seems to make Dan angrier, although his expression remains carefully blank and he never raises his voice as he demands, "Why?" And when Casey says nothing he goes on, "Because of what we almost, nearly, might-have-had once, four years ago? You married Lisa. You made your choice. What did you think I'd do, Casey, sit around moping and wait for you to realise you'd made a mistake? Did you think I'd cry over you, let you break my heart, never look at another man if I couldn't have you? I'm not a fourteen-year-old girl, Casey, and we're not living in a Harlequin romance." He turns away. "I'm going running. Come with me if you want to. If not, not. I was happy to see you, man. Don't screw this up."

Casey hadn't meant that at all. He never thinks of that time, the trip to Florida, his grandmother. Never thinks of it. He'd only meant, if they were going to be working together. (Yes: that's what he'd meant. That's all he'd meant.) But how could Dan know that? He hasn't even mentioned the Lone Star job yet. He tries to say something now, but the words won't come. He can only stand, staring, as Dan turns on his heel to leave. He finally manages to choke out, "Danny?", his throat dry. And Dan pauses, ready to listen but still poised for flight, his hand resting on the door.

"Danny," Casey says again. "Dan - don't. Don't just walk away."

"Make me stay," Dan says to the floor. "I'm listening."

But Casey's still not sure what he wants to say, what he should say. He dredges something up at random. "I just … I was worried. Danny, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Dan turns back then, and a mischievous grin suddenly brightens his face. "Pretty sure, yeah," he says. "I haven't had any complaints, you know, so I figure I'm doing it right - "

"That's not what I meant!" Casey protests, and at once Dan's serious again.

"I know," he says, more gently now. "You think the lifestyle isn't good for me? I don't need protecting, Casey."

"No - I mean, yes, maybe. That guy at the airport - "

"Casey." Dan's voice is patient. "I'm Jewish. Remember? Did you think no-one ever said a mean word to me before?"

"… and your career - "

"That's the choice you made, isn't it?" Dan says, and now he sounds bleak, weary. "Your _career_. Four years ago - "

"Four years ago, I went a little crazy - "

"You knew what you were doing!" Dan snaps, and he moves up very close to Casey and says, low and fast, almost in his ear, "Four years ago you dragged me into a hall closet, and you kissed me, and you jerked me off, and I did the same for you, and you _liked_ it, Casey, you know you did, you can't deny it." Impossibly, he's even closer now. "You liked it, and you'd like to do it again, you want it now, right now, Casey, tell me you don't."

Casey can't. He says nothing, and Dan flings himself away with a bitter laugh. "Yeah, that's what I thought. If you didn't care more about what people think than about what you need. If you weren't scared shitless to go for what you want and say the hell with it."

"And then what?" Casey demands; his voice shakes. "What do I do then, Danny? When the network fires me, and Lisa leaves me? What am I supposed to do then?"

And Dan laughs, but there's no humour in it, only a world of hurt. "Do? You do whatever you want to do, Casey." He's back by the door, dragging it open, and flings over his shoulder as he goes, "Same as always."

Casey listens to the door slam, then drops back heavily to the bed. That had not gone the way he'd planned. He'd known Dan would be angry; he could have marshalled his arguments better. But having Dan so close after so long apart - he hadn't realised the effect it would have on him.

Dan was right. Casey does still want him.

Badly.

Finally, he lies down and tries to get the rest he's promised himself. Sleep's a long time returning, though, and, when it does, his dreams are not of Lisa.

*

When Dan meets Casey and Dana in the lobby a few hours later he seems to have calmed down; at least, outwardly, and that's half the battle. Casey knows Dan well enough to know that 'inwardly' is another matter, one that will take a lot more than a little time and a couple of hours' running to resolve. Dana whispers to Casey as Dan comes into view, "Did you - ?" and he hisses back, "Yes!", and then Dan's there, smiling, telling Dana she looks hot - which is true, and Casey might have thought to tell her that himself - and, apparently, as nearly back to normal as anyone could hope for. Although 'normal' and 'Dan' have never been on quite the same page or, in fact, in quite the same book.

The awards dinner is predictably appalling. Dan eyes the shrimp cocktail, and sighs. He's not particularly observant; he is, however, violently allergic to shellfish, which serves a similar purpose and gets him off the hook with his grandmother, who is very much so. Dana reaches over, snags his portion, and eats it. The main course appears to be rubber chicken, although Casey thinks it may actually be an improvement on some of Lisa's efforts. In the interests of turnabout-fair-play, he eats Dana's.

Dan has managed two forkfuls of salad and vanished from the table. He's gone for nearly twenty minutes, and when he comes back he's looking very white and his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. He sits back down, drinks a glass of water, refills it, and downs that one too. Casey knows that means he's been throwing up. And not just because of the shellfish; he'd known Dan's air of calm was too good to be true. He's watching Dan so carefully that he almost doesn't hear his own name being called and Dana has to poke him in the arm to keep him from missing his moment of triumph. He pulls himself together to thank everyone he should do (probably. He thinks. He should have made a list. In fact, he did, but he left it on the nightstand), and gets on and off the stage without falling over his own feet. He counts that as a win all round.

Dan's name, as predicted, isn't called. Dan shrugs it away; Casey pretends to be more surprised than he is, and makes consoling noises. Dan shrugs those away too, and plasters a bright, fake smile across his face. "No big deal," he says, and keeps on saying to everyone who stops to offer their condolences, whether they mean it or not.

There's a party after the ceremony, if by 'party' they mean 'a bunch of drunken strangers milling about feeling awkward and embarrassed and getting progressively drunker while they try to over-compensate'. Casey knows he'll have to show his face there and endure another round of congratulations and fake bonhomie, but he puts it off for a few minutes; he still hasn't phoned Lisa, and he really should. He knows he should. But she doesn't pick up on the first ring, or the second, or the tenth for that matter, and he's on the verge of thinking better of it when he finally hears her voice. She sounds tired and frazzled, but that's normal for her these days; he thinks nothing of it.

"Hey, Lisa," he says, and waits for her to congratulate him on his win. And waits. She just says, "Casey," and she sounds more irritated than anything else. It's becoming hard to tell. That's pretty normal too, nowadays. After a moment she says, "Casey, Charlie's crying - did you phone for anything in particular?"

"Why's Charlie crying?" he demands, as if it were her fault, although, for god's sake, when _isn't_ Charlie crying these days? He's concerned, of course he is - he loves Charlie - but it's starting to get to the point where he'd be more worried if Charlie _wasn't_ crying.

At the other end of the line, Lisa sighs. "When isn't he crying?" she says wearily, and Casey is unreasonably irritated to hear her echoing his own thoughts aloud. She's Charlie's mother: surely she should show a bit more concern? "His ear's bothering him, Casey, and he can't get to sleep. What was it you - ?"

"I won the award," he said. He holds up the little - whatever it is; statuette? Ugly block of Perspex? - and reads off the base, "'Outstanding Achievement in Sports Journalism'. Didn't you see it on the TV?"

She just says, "Oh." There's an empty moment, then, "Well, that's nice for you, honey."

"Didn't you see it?" he asks again, and she says, "Casey. I've had my hands full, I've been so busy, I haven't had the TV on. And you know I don't think those things really mean all that much."

_It means something to me!_ Casey wants to say, but all he says out loud is, "You taped it, though?" Because he'd like to have something to remember the occasion. He has the award, but still: a tape would be nice, too. Maybe it's kind of vain to enjoy watching himself on TV but, truthfully, who doesn't feel that way?

She sighs again. "Casey - hon - I'm sorry, but I really haven't had the time - " She stops mid-sentence; Casey can hear her talking to someone else, away from the receiver. Then she's back. "Charlie wants to say hello." And then Charlie's on the line, snuffling a bit and asking, "Daddy, when are you coming home?" So Casey has to bite down on his frustration and soften his voice and say, "Very soon now, Charlie. I'll be back tomorrow. You be a good boy for your mommy, and go to sleep now, you hear? I love you," he says, and his throat tightens; it's true, he does, and that's what makes it all worthwhile, this whole wretched, shallow pretence of a life he never wanted to live but which somehow he ended up choosing anyhow. Or maybe it chose him. And that thought just makes him sharper with Lisa when she comes back, and he snaps at her, "I know it's not important to _you_, Lisa, but it's my career and you could at least pretend to take an interest. Since I support this family, and all."

She just huffs another sigh, weary and long-suffering and so, so fucking _infuriating_. "Casey. I'm sorry. I really don't want to get into this right now. You have a good evening, go and celebrate with your _friends_ \- " (and there's a certain bite to the way she says 'friends'). "I'll see you tomorrow, when you get home." Then, quietly, she adds, "I do love you, you know." And she puts down the phone.

She has a strange way of showing it, Casey thinks. He heads toward the party, and, once there, he starts to celebrate. It's okay. Lisa told him to.

*

The party winds up in the early hours of the morning. Casey's not sure how late, because he can't read the numbers on his watch any more. He's one of the last standing, and is proud of his stamina. Or he would be, if he were capable of coherent thought. His college years have evidently stood him in good stead. He may be a father and a married man (or vice versa. Whatever), but he can still whoop it up like the best of the good ol' boys.

Or something.

He finds the elevator, more by luck than judgement, and gets out at the right floor through more of the same. Remembers the trek he has ahead of him and groans quietly, then trudges off in the right general direction.

When he gets to Dana's door, he pauses. Dana. Dana's his friend. His best friend, or his best girl friend. That is, his best friend-who's-a-girl. And Dana knows Lisa. Dana will understand.

So he knocks. There's no answer. He knocks again. On the third knock - or the fourth, he's having a little trouble counting - Dana opens it. He's surprised to see that she's in her pyjamas (which are large and blue and have little cartoon sheep all over them). Her hair's tied back in a stringy ponytail, and her face is shiny with grease, or no, it'll be some ridiculously expensive crap that's guaranteed to keep her looking like a teenager forever. Women are so _gullible_. "You were asleep?" he asks stupidly, and thinks, injured, that there's no call for her to roll her eyes the way she does.

"You mind if I come in for a moment?" he asks, and heads on past her - or 'stumbles' is probably the correct technical term - without waiting for a reply. She says, "Casey - !" on a sort-of wailing, protesting note, but he pays her no mind; just plonks himself down on the bed. It bounces under him and threatens to toss him off again, and he reaches down to hold onto it with both hands. Dana stands by the door for a few seconds, just looking at him, then sighs, goes to get a bottle of water out of the mini-bar, twists off the top and hands it to him.

He mutters, "Thanks," then turns to her and begins, "Dana - " but she holds up her hands to forestall him.

"I don't want to hear it, Casey."

He laughs uncertainly, taken off-balance. "You don't want to hear what?"

"Oh, Casey." She says his name like a sigh. "You honestly don't know, do you? You had a fight with Lisa. You're miserable. You got drunk. You thought, oh, good old Dana, Dana will understand. And you knocked on my door at - " She squints at the clock on the nightstand. "Jesus, Casey, at three thirty in the morning!"

He shrugs, vaguely embarrassed. That _is_ kind of late. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

She sighs again. "You always are. Casey, you used to do this in college all the time."

"I did?" he says, bewildered.

"And you don't remember, because this is how drunk you have to be before you let any of this stuff out."

"What _stuff?_" he asks, indignantly.

"This stuff! All the crap you keep bottled up inside of you, all your uptight, repressed, insecure, neurotic, paranoid _junk_. You get this drunk, you come and cry on my shoulder, you spill your guts, you try to kiss me because, yes, _that's_ going to make it better, and then you crawl back into your nice, tight, safe little shell and forget all about it."

He tries to say something, to protest, because she's wrong, when did he ever do that, but she overrides him.

"It goes like this, Casey, tell me this isn't what you came here to say: 'Lisa's a bitch, Lisa doesn't understand me' - or appreciate you, one or the other - 'but Dana, Dana gets me, don't you, Dana, Dana's always there for me'." Her voice is horribly bitter, almost beyond recognition. "Good. Old. Dana. I fell for it once, Casey, the first time. That was enough. I'm sorry your life isn't perfect - " She drags her hands over her face, leaving smears in her night cream. "I really am sorry, Casey, because you're a nice guy, when you're not being a total jackass, and you do deserve better, but for heaven's sake, do you honestly think you're the only one?"

"The only one what?" he asks, more confused than ever.

"The only one who's unhappy, Casey, the only one whose life isn't perfect, the only one who missed out, or made a bad decision, or got a raw deal! Do you want to hear about all the things that are wrong with _my_ life?"

He looks at her, puzzled. "Don't you have a pretty good life?" And is surprised when she snatches up the book that's lying on the night table and hurls it across the room.

"Don't _you?_" she snaps. "You're young, you're incredibly good-looking, you make good money, you have a job you love, a wonderful wife, an adorable son. How many people do you think wouldn't swap with you if they had the chance?" And, as he's still staring at her, she drops back into the armchair, grabs the stuffed toy rabbit that still goes everywhere with her, and sits hugging it. "Just get out, Casey. Go back to your room and get some sleep. You'll have forgotten all about this in the morning, I guarantee it."

And, hurt and bemused, he has no choice but to do as she says. But she catches him up by the door, grabs him by the arm, reaches up and pecks him on the cheek. "You're an idiot," she says, "and you're the most self-centred man I've ever known, and that takes some doing. But I do love you, Casey, god knows why. I'm sorry you're unhappy. I wish there was something I could do. But there isn't. Just go to bed. Okay?"

He says, "Okay," and backs out, and watches the door close behind him.

His room, empty and uninviting as it is (and such a long, long way away), holds no attraction for him. He isn't tired; he's too wound up to sleep. He thinks he'll go back down to the lobby, see if there are any other nighthawks out there to keep him company. He turns back to the elevator, presses the call button, and waits. It arrives, and Dan steps out.

It's not what either of them was expecting, and they both start a bit. Dan's evidently been out; he's changed out of the suit he was wearing at dinner and into jeans and a black teeshirt, a dark blue shirt open over it. His hair's damp with sweat, and his face is flushed. Casey decides he'd prefer not to know what he's been doing.

"Hey," he says, warily; he's not sure whether he's forgiven yet for the earlier scene. Or for winning, when Dan … didn't. But Dan, who's never yet been known to hold a grudge, smiles at him sunnily - Dan, it occurs to Casey, may also not be entirely sober - and says, "Hey, you!"

Casey leans up against the wall. Gravity is not wholly his friend at this moment. "I didn't see you at the party."

Dan looks away then, barely shifts his shoulders. "Didn't go," he admits, glances up, meets Casey's eyes, then looks away again. "I got tired of saying it was an honour just to be nominated. Marcus brought the car back. We went clubbing."

"You didn't bring him back here?"

Another not-quite shrug. "Nah. He got a ride with some other guys, he's okay."

That isn't what Casey asked, and he recognises Dan's diversionary tactics when he sees them, but right now he can't be bothered to pursue the matter. "You could've gone home."

Dan starts walking off down the corridor. Casey launches himself off the wall and falls in beside him. "Nah," Dan says again. "The network's paying for the hotel room, I figure I might as well get the benefit. Besides, I want to steal all those little shampoo bottles. And the soap. You know what's cool about this job? I can't remember the last time I had to buy soap."

"You steal the toilet paper too?" Casey wants to know, and Dan looks shocked.

"That would be _tacky!_" His eyes flicker sidelong and rest a moment on Casey's profile. "And I wanted to spend some time with you. Without getting into a fight. I'm sorry about - about before. I didn't want to quarrel with you, Casey. We don't see each other often enough as it is."

For some reason, possibly alcohol-related, Casey finds this unspeakably moving. He stops walking and turns to face Dan, resting a hand on the other man's arm and pulling him around. There's a moment of eye contact; something passes between them, although, if asked, neither would know what to call it. But then Dan's eyes shift to Casey's loosened tie and open collar, and he starts to smirk.

"What?" Casey demands.

Dan just grins wider, and leans forward for closer investigation. "Oh, man, Lisa's going to love this!"

"What?" Casey mutters again, although right at this moment he's having trouble focusing enough to care.

"You've got lipstick on your shirt."

"Oh." He casts his mind back over the evening. "It's Dana's." Dana always did skimp on taking off her makeup. He remembers back in college, trying to wash her mascara off cushions after an all-nighter, remembers her indignation when her skin broke out for no reason that she could fathom.

Dan looks at him askance as they walk on. "Yeah, I'm sure that'll make it oh, so much better."

Casey manages a smirk of his own, and at least an attempt at a preen. "What can I tell you, Danny? Women love a winner."

"Good thing I'm gay, then, isn't it?" Dan says, so straightfaced that Casey can't tell whether he's joking or not.

"Danny - " He puts out his hand, and they both stop walking again. "You deserved to win. It was a good piece. It's just - maybe it's too soon. And Mac Arnold, you know he's retiring this year - he'd've got a lot of sympathy votes, lots of support for all the times he's been passed over - "

"Casey." Dan manages a small, good-loser smile. "You don't have to apologise. It's the way things are. I've got plenty of time, and besides, these things, they don't really …" His voice tails off; Casey would lay money that the next word would have been 'matter'.

"You as well?" he says bitterly. "Great. Thanks a lot!" And he starts to walk away. Dan catches him up easily, possibly because Dan, unlike himself, can walk in a straight line. He grabs his arm and pulls him up.

"Casey." He sighs. "We're not having our best day, are we? I'm sorry." He looks up at Casey, his eyes searching his face. Whatever he sees there makes him frown.

"You want to let me know what this is really about, Casey?"

Casey would love to do just that. If only he knew the answer himself. Instead, he shrugs. "It's nothing. I'm just a little bit tired, okay, Danny? And my head hurts," he adds, realising suddenly that it's true.

Dan gives him his smallest, most secret smile, the one Casey has come to think means 'You're an idiot, but you're _my_ idiot, so I'll cut you some slack'. "It's almost four in the morning, Casey, is it any wonder you're tired?" He reaches into the pocket of the coat he's carrying slung over his arm, fumbles about in there, pulls out a foil packet of Tylenol. "And here - " He pops a couple into his hand and passes them over. "That's for the headache." He falls into step beside Casey again. "That's not all of it, though, is it? You want to talk?"

Does he?

It's late; he's drunk and so is Dan; they've already had one fight today, and the beginnings of another. They probably couldn't pick a worse time for a serious conversation if they tried.

So, of course, Casey says, "Yes. Yes, I do."

*

Casey thinks they're going to Dan's room, but Dan passes his own door without a pause. Casey says, "Where - ?" and Dan glances up at him.

"Your room. I thought that'd be better. I can tuck you into bed and read you a story."

"My room's back - " Casey turns, discovers he's forgotten to stop and is now walking backwards, makes vague gesticulations in the direction he thinks his room's in. Dan grabs his elbow and steers him around.

"Casey. Hotel. Building. Rectangular. Right angles in corridors." His hands draw complicated architectural blueprints in the air to demonstrate. "You see what I'm saying?" And they turn a corner, pass a second elevator that Casey didn't know about, and a moment later there they are, coming at Casey's room from the other direction. Casey groans inwardly. It's rather late now to be finding the shortcuts.

Dan settles Casey into the room's one comfortable chair, fetches him a glass of water to go with the Tylenol, phones room service, who Casey is sure are delighted to hear from him, for coffee, then perches on the arm of the chair. "Tell me," he says. "What's wrong, Casey? Something's been bothering you all day."

And Casey leans forward, drops his head into his hands, and sighs, letting all the weariness, all the frustration, all the, yes, anger - because it shouldn't be like this, why must it always be like this? - drain out of him. "Not just today," he says. "It's - everything should be so good, you know? And there's always something. Something comes along and just fucks it all up. It's just so - so - " He doesn't want to say 'unfair'; he knows that would sound whiny. "You know, I do everything for her, I work my ass off to give her everything she wants, and she just throws it all back in my face."

"Lisa?" Dan says, warily. Maybe he thinks that after their earlier quarrel it's not safe to say the name.

"Of course, Lisa!" Casey says, too loudly. "You know, she didn't even bother to watch the show? It's my career, but she doesn't even care enough to turn on the TV?" He knows, even as he says it, that he's being unfair, but the hell with it. It still stings. And for god's sake, she couldn't have found two minutes to turn on the VCR and put a tape in?

Dan's face is dark, brooding, and Casey feels a moment's guilt at talking Lisa down to him. But it's not as though the two of them were ever going to be best friends. He says, "I'm sorry. You deserve more than that, Casey. _I_ wouldn't - " He cuts the thought off sharply, lays a hand on the back of Casey's bowed neck. "Shuffle round a bit," he orders, and Casey does. He feels Dan's other hand slide around his throat, open a second button on his shirt and then another, push it back from his shoulders, then slide back, beginning to massage the tension out of his taut muscles. Dan's an expert at this, his hands firm and sure; Casey sighs, and tries to let himself relax. There's a problem though. Dan's touch on his bare skin is having … repercussions. He shifts uncomfortably, puts a hand up behind his own shoulder and catches one of Dan's wrists in his. Dan stops.

"That's not helping?" he asks, and Casey smothers a laugh.

"It's kind of having the opposite effect," he says. "If you see what I mean." He looks up. Dan's eyes are focused on his groin, and he's smiling.

"I see what you mean," he says softly. He's still for a moment, and his face clouds, as if he's struggling with a decision. Then he slides off the arm of the chair, moves in front of Casey, and drops to his knees.

"Danny - " Casey says weakly, but he's not sure whether he means it as warning or encouragement. He knows he should push Dan away, tell him to stop. He knows that's what he should do. But his hands, when he sets them against Dan's shoulders, somehow have a will of their own and only pull him closer, and when he shifts in the chair again it's not to move away, it's only to give Dan a better angle.

It doesn't take long; Dan knows what he's doing. _He's had a lot of practice_, Casey's mind snidely reminds him, and he bats the thought away. He doesn't want to think about Dan and other men. He wants to pretend that this is something special, something unique, something only the two of them share. Except … no. He knows too well how far that is from the truth. And so, when he has his breath back, he asks, "What about Marcus?" Because he thinks he should. Not because he wants to think about Marcus, not right now. And not because he cares. Marcus can go straight to hell and rot there, for all of him.

Dan's head is resting in Casey's lap, his hands on Casey's thighs. He looks up now and shrugs. "He's just a friend. Nothing special."

"I thought you said he fucked you?" Casey says, harsher than he means to. "Do you let all your friends fuck you these days, Dan?"

Dan looks away. "No," he says, quietly.

"Would you let _me_ fuck you?"

Dan laughs then, but there's no humour in it. "I'd love you to, Casey. I've been waiting for it long enough. But - " He puts out a hand, presses it to Casey's chest, holds him away, "But not tonight. Because you're drunk, and you have no idea what you're talking about. And not ever, as long as you're married to Lisa. Who, god knows why, you actually love, even if you don't seem to realise it. And I don't want it to be this way."

"What way?" Casey demands.

"I don't want it to be something we'll regret," Dan says, softer than ever. "Both of us. Don't you think we've got enough to regret already?"

Casey looks away into the distance; thinking. Lisa; Marcus. Dana. The network. All those people who need to be thought of and answered to. What price freedom now? "So, what was that, Danny? What just happened?"

And Dan meets his eyes limpidly and says, in all apparent seriousness, "Blowjobs don't count. Besides," he goes on, "don't you feel better now?" Casey can't deny that. "The state you were in, you were about two steps away from going downstairs, picking up a hooker, and ending up with your face splashed all over the _National Enquirer_."

"So you were just doing me a favour?" Casey asks. "Good of you to care, Danny."

And Dan's face grows sombre again, and he says, very quietly, "Not just you, Casey. Not just you."

And Casey stands up then, taking Dan's hands in his own, and he pulls Dan toward him, wrapping his arms around him. Dan's erection pressing against his leg excites him and frightens him, both at once and in equal measure; in fact, it's possible that each of them is the result of the other. He reaches down to touch it and Danny whimpers, almost as if in pain, and bucks against his hand. He tries not to snatch it away again. But it's Dan who pulls back, Dan who keeps pushing him away and saying "No," almost as if he really means it.

"No - it's okay, Casey, you don't have to - "

"I want to," Casey murmurs. And he does. Suddenly he wants it more than anything else in the world. More than his family; more than his career. More than all the awards he'll ever win, or could have won.

"_No!_" Dan says again, and tries to break out of his hold, but Casey won't let him. "We can't - Casey, _you_ can't, it's all wrong - you're drunk, when you sober up you'll be sorry - we both will - "

"Are you sorry for what we did before? That time at my grandmother's?"

"Yes!" Dan says forcefully. "Yes, I am. Because it showed me what I want, and gave me just enough of it to know I couldn't live without it, and then it all got snatched away, right out of my hands. Because it _hurts_, Casey. Yes, I'm sorry. Every fucking day, I'm so sorry."

"Do you wish it'd never happened?"

Dan doesn't answer. Casey puts his hand on him and exerts pressure, just enough to make Dan moan and throw back his head. "Do you, Danny?"

"No!" Dan hisses, teeth clenched. And suddenly Dan's kissing him, savage and reckless and despairing, and it's not just a buddy fuck, it's not just comfort, it's something so achingly real that it's Casey's turn to stumble away from it, terrified. But only for a moment. Instinct takes over and he pulls Dan down, pins him to the bed, matches him, kiss for kiss, passion for passion.

He can't help but compare Dan's eagerness, that passion, with Lisa. With her indifference, her resigned, routine, lie-back-and-endure it approach to sex. It's been a long time since Lisa writhed underneath him in ecstasy, since she clutched at him as though she'd never let him go, since she gasped out his name as though it were a prayer.

It's been a long time since Lisa's given him any indication that she needs him, that she views him as any more than a necessary but inconvenient evil.

Then it registers that Dan's kisses against his shoulder have become harder, almost bites, bites that will mark, and he pulls away and says, "Danny - don't - " And when Dan looks up at him, eyes huge and dark and wild, he says, lamely, "What will I tell Lisa?"

He watches as awareness returns to Dan's eyes and the light in them fades. Dan says dully, "Lisa," and turns away and buries his head in his arms. Casey goes to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Dan flinches away. When he looks up again his face is stony, his mouth a tight line. "Casey. We shouldn't see each other any more. If this is what happens."

"Not - "

"It's not fair, Casey. To me, to her. To you. We just make ourselves unhappy. You have a life. You have Charlie. I don't have a place in it, not any more. I don't have the right."

But this is one thing Casey can be sure of. He takes Dan by the arms, fingers digging deep into the flesh, and shakes him. Hard.

"No," he says flatly. "That's not going to happen, Danny. Never going to happen. You _are_ a part of my life, and I'm not going to let that go. I won't lose you. You're my best friend, you're about the only person in the whole damned world who really gets me, and - " He has to stop for a moment, his voice threading. Then, "This - this - we're adults. We can deal with it. We can keep it under control."

Dan almost laughs, then winces. "Ow! You're hurting me, man," he protests, and Casey loosens his grip. "'Keep it under control'," he echoes. "Yeah. 'Cause we're _good_ at that!"

"I want you to come to Dallas," Casey blurts. This was hardly how he'd planned to break the news, but then - he hadn't exactly planned any of this. Dan only stares at him blankly, and so he explains: Lone Star, the new show, the anchor position, the co-anchor opening. Dan sits. And listens. And then he starts to laugh.

"Ah, Casey. You're crazy, you do know that?"

"It's been said," Casey admits. He slides off the bed and wanders over to the window, looking out at the lights of the city below. So many lights; so many secrets. So much sorrow and wonder and joy. So much that he'll never know, never learn, never experience.

So much.

"Is this your idea of charity?" Dan's voice shakes, and he catches his breath. "You don't think I'm doing okay for myself, you think I need your help?"

He sounds hurt and unsure. Casey makes haste to reassure him. "I think you're doing fine for yourself. I think you've done - " He throws out his arms in an expansive gesture, "_Amazingly_. This isn't about that. I want you with me. We're both good when we're on our own. Together - together, I think we'd be spectacular."

"Spectacular," Dan echoes, on a long, slow exhale. "Casey." Then again, "Casey. Casey, Casey." He shakes his head, sighs, shrugs, the picture of long-suffering resignation. "Okay. You win. I'll go to Texas, I'll meet your people. Okay?"

Casey tries to hold back his grin of triumph, but can't. "Okay!" He goes to throw an arm around Dan's shoulders, but Dan slides away.

"This can't keep happening though. You know that?"

"It won't," Casey promises. Dan looks sceptical, and Casey insists, "It won't! This was just … not seeing you for so long. If we're together all the time, there won't be the - "

"Novelty value?" Dan suggests dryly.

Casey spreads his hands. "If you like."

"Thanks a lot!" Dan says. "Casey, this doesn't guarantee anything. You're making an awful lot of assumptions Maybe they won't like me - "

"Oh, they'll like you," Casey assures him.

" - maybe it won't be what I want - "

"Danny." There's a note of impatience in his voice now, and he tries to lose it. "Do you even know what you want? It's a big-time cable network, Dan. There's a chance to go national - maybe not with this, but it's a step. Don't you want that?"

Dan shrugs again. "Maybe. But I want my life, too, Casey. You're telling me that a cable sports channel in Dallas is going to be happy to have a queer anchor fronting their show?"

There's an awkward pause. Finally Casey says, "Not openly … gay." He can't quite bring himself to say the other word. "No."

"So you want me, what? To lie?"

"Not lie. Just - you know. Don't ask, don't tell."

"Lie," Dan says firmly, and Casey lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Is that such a big deal? Is it even anyone else's business?"

"Oh," Dan says, grimly, "they'll _make_ it their business. Believe me." Then he looks up at Casey, and his face softens. "I'll talk to them, Casey. I'll see how things pan out. If that's what you want. But I won't make the same choice you did, Casey. I won't make that mistake." He crosses the room back to Casey, and, awkwardly, puts an arm around Casey's shoulder, pulls him into a half-hug. "Thank you. For thinking of me. Thanks, man."

And Casey reaches back to him with both arms, and pulls him close. Dan lays his head on Casey's shoulder; his hand curls around Casey's neck. They stand like that for a long moment, and when they part, it's with reluctance.

"Trust me," Casey says.

"I do," Dan tells him. "Oddly enough, in spite of everything, I do." And then suddenly he ducks his head forward and drops a kiss on Casey's cheek.

Casey smiles at him. "What was that for?"

Dan turns away. "Nothing. Only - if this is all we're going to have together, I want to _know_ when I kiss you for the last time." He opens the door. "Goodnight, Casey." And he's gone.

*

They check out of the hotel late the next morning. Dan's gone to get the car; Dana suddenly feels the urge to buy candy for the 'plane ("My ears pop," she explains). Casey's standing alone in the lobby, feeling vaguely exposed and foolish, when a strange man approaches him: a well-dressed, well-groomed stranger, young-middle-aged and good-looking, all fake tan and white, very white teeth. Casey eyes him warily, and the white teeth flash even brighter in a sharklike smile.

"Casey McCall, right?"

Casey nods. It's not as if he can deny it.

"Congratulations on the award!" The man sticks out his hand. Casey goes to shake it, realises he's still clutching a carrier bag that holds the last-minute-afterthought gift shop teddy bear for Charlie, and has to do an awkward switch-round which the stranger tries, charmingly, to pretend not to notice. "Well deserved," the man goes on, "Well deserved. Now, I don't want to talk anyone down, but you know, you're wasted on a channel like Lone Star - it's strictly small-time, don't you think?" Luckily he doesn't wait for Casey to say anything, since 'yes' would be tactless, especially if Lone Star came to hear of it, and 'no' would be rude, but ploughs on, "Have you ever thought of late night?"

That doesn't seem to make sense to Casey. He replays it in his head; then the coin drops. _Late Night. Late Night!_

"I - " he begins, but again, the other man doesn't give him the chance to speak. He hands Casey a business card. "I'll have my people get in touch with your people," he tells him, and then he's gone, just as Dana wanders back. A tell-tale bulge in her cheek indicates that she hasn't waited to get on the plane before breaking into the candy.

"Who was that?" she asks, a little muffled.

"No-one," Casey says, staring after the stranger. And then, again, quietly: "No-one, Dana." And he looks up at her. "You ready to go home?"

* * *


End file.
